


slick

by aduviri



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aduviri/pseuds/aduviri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the X-men: First Class kink meme: "So, [Charles and Erik] are alone on a magic trip around the world. They must have stayed in some hotels. Some of hotels have 1 bathroom for 2 rooms. In one of those places Erik "goes to the bathroom, not knowing that Charles is already there. Erik hears him masturbate. It's then revealed that Charles was masturbating to thoughts of Erik, and this makes Erik intrigued, and of course, turned on. Bonus points if Charles" figured out that Erik was there and made a show out of it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	slick

It has been a trying few weeks. He is sharing room space, occasionally bed space, car space, and sometimes breathing space with Charles, Charles and his old-man cardigans, Charles and his musty-book smell, Charles and his downy-soft hair, Charles and his pink-flushed skin, Charles and his narrow hips that would be perfect to—

Yes. That. That is what had made it a trying few weeks.

But the hotel they’ve checked in to, a small out-of-the-way place in Spokane, has thankfully taken a step towards solving this problem in providing them separate bedrooms. The bathroom is the only adjoining factor, but Erik thinks he can live with this arrangement quite nicely for the next for days. Free of Charles and his scent, his appearance, his voice, his…everything.

Space to think.

He rubs at his face, feeling the slightly greasy skin catch at his hands.

A shower should help him unwind, allow him a blissfully calm evening.

He gathers a towel in his arms, and a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap from the hotel’s desk, and slips into the bathroom. He only notices the steam, the heat, and _the other person_ after the door has been closed.

 _The other person_ who appears to be relieving stress in a very particular way behind the gauzy shower curtain.

He can’t quite make him out—only a shape moving behind the sheer curtain, back pressed to the wall, arm sliding up and down, hips occasionally snapping forward. Certain outlines are sharper—the soft, rounded chin, tilted upward, jaw occasionally dropping to let out a gasp; the space between the arm and the torso, appearing and vanishing in stuttering intervals—but overall the image is vague, indefinable. It could be anyone. It could be another man, a stranger—

 _“Good lord.”_

…or it could _most definitely_ be Charles, releasing wet, breathy words that sound like they are torn from the fabric sex is made from.

The sounds suddenly surge back in to fill the void the vague images leave: Charles’ voice, undoubtedly Charles’, moaning— _keening_ , now, but softer, as though he is biting at that lush lower lip, trying to keep—(and here Erik’s heart jolts, and he can feel the pulse pang in his cock, pressing hard against his pants, and all he wants to do is touch—) –trying to keep Erik from hearing him in the other room; the high, soft noise falling down to short, quick pants. He can hear the barest hint of a groan behind every desperate rush of air, his voice catching and tripping out on the edge of every huff.

And then, counterpoint to the pants, he hears the slick, obscene squelch of Charles— _Charles_ , proper, reserved, calm, English _Charles_ —fisting his cock, pulling at it with first quick and then slow strokes. Erik leans against the counter, the edge digging into his hip, unable to tear his eyes away from the blurry outline of Charles’ arm and cock against the curtain. His every breath is trembling, now, and he digs the fingers of one hand into the sink and the other into a nearby towel to avoid what he has successfully kept himself from doing this entire fiasco of a trip—jerking himself off to the sight and sound of his gorgeous and unattainable friend. He refuses to make that friend (his _only_ friend) the object of lewd fantasies (not least because he’s secretly terrified Charles would see and no longer care for his fate anymore).

But still, Charles is his weakness, and he is a starved man at a banquet. As a man who has been starved before, Erik knows his fate: the stomach of a starved man can only handle bread and water, so bread and water he will take. He stays, then, soaking up the bread and water of the sight and sound of Charles, and tries to make himself content. This is all he needs, and it is all he will ever have.

The obscene slip-slide of Charles’ hand on his cock has slowed to a languorous pace, long, heavy strokes with a twist on the end. He watches as an ill-defined hand travels from the chest—corresponding with a surprisingly loud, bitten-off moan, and Erik has to close his eyes to maintain composure as he imagines those pert pink nubs, taking one between his teeth and rolling it until it puckered, until Charles hadn’t enough sense to bite off his noises—and down to his waist, his hip, and Erik expects to see that second hand join the first, but it continues its trek downward, over a thigh and then—back, to a rounded arse cheek, and then fingers dip into the dark soft-edged shadow, and he cannot breathe, he can barely see around the black spots in his vision, so hard is he staring—

“Oh, god, _Erik_.”

The words are less than a sigh but more than a whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the hiss of the shower. Erik nearly comes in his slacks, untouched.

He panics, then. He has been found out—He must explain—

“Erik, Erik, more, please— _Erik_ —”

But he hasn’t been, and he mustn’t.

Instead, he finds himself caught up in Charles’ voice, the way it trips over words like Charles over his own two feet when intoxicated. And his name, his name coming from those swollen red lips, from that proper English mouth…Erik’s vision goes white, briefly, and he has to gnaw his tongue to keep his climax at bay.

And perhaps he shouldn’t keep his eyes closed so long, he might miss something, but all he can see is that sweet red mouth, wet and glistening, as obscene as the squish-squelch of before—

He is so caught up in the fantasy, in keeping himself in check, that he is completely removed from the world around him.

Charles is not.

“Are you quite all right, my friend?”

Words so innocuous are surprisingly seductive when whispered hot into his ear.

He flinches backward, hip catching the counter before slamming into the wall. Charles is flush against him before he even finishes settling. The skin Erik can see is wet, shimmering in the cheap light, and flushed an appealing shade of pink from the water. That is all he comprehends before Charles looks at him with those electric blue eyes and that sinfully plump mouth and then grinds his thigh into Erik’s neglected erection.

“We’ll soon fix this,” comes warm and wet into the soft cup of his ear. Images swirl in his mind, laced with desire—and the most prominent: Charles on his knees, hair wet, blue eyes blown wide and black with lust, and that pair of cocksucker lips wrapped around Erik’s dick, laced through with an incredibly strong overtone of desire.

Erik comes in his pants, grinding down against Charles’ leg, groaning from deep in his chest. His hands scrabble messily against Charles, reaching down until they reach their goal and pulling, twisting, a perfect version of the shadowy figure in the shower, and Charles comes apart under his hands, soft fingers bruising the outside of his arms, gorgeous mouth open on a gasping, wordless cry.

He holds Charles through the aftershocks, cradling his cock, milking him for all he can until Charles pushes his hand away to press closer to Erik’s body. At last, he laughs.

“I’m sorry, love; I appear to have gotten you astonishingly wet.”

Erik runs his hands through Charles’ damp mane. “I can’t bring myself to mind at the moment,” he confesses (with what he’ll later deny is a chuckle. He doesn’t chuckle, not even after orgasm). “I’m sorry to be…to…to look at you like that. When you didn’t know.”

Charles pulls back enough to raise an eyebrow at Erik. “I don’t believe that’s an accurate statement, Erik.”

“…what?”

“Well, I wasn’t aware at first—you can be quite stealthy, you know. But after I—after I really got into it, I noticed that the metal faucet was bending in on itself. And then I reached out, just a little, and I felt you there, and I…well…I may have put on a bit of a show.” Charles glances up at him, licking at his lips, the corners quirking upwards.

“You’re a little cocktease, Charles,” Erik growls. He reaches out and then down, digging his fingers into Charles’ thighs and hauling him upwards. Charles laughs, bright in his ear, as Erik shoulders his way back into his room and tosses Charles onto the bed.

“But you’re going to make it up to me.”

Charles bites his lip and smiles


End file.
